


the undone and the divine

by canonlytrans



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bondage, Derogatory Language, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Kismesissitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 21:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonlytrans/pseuds/canonlytrans
Summary: He’s smirking, and she recognizes it as black as they come.





	the undone and the divine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Homestuck Smut Prompt Random Generator](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17967788) by [TTMIYH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TTMIYH/pseuds/TTMIYH). 



> So you can thank the Homestuck Smut Generator for this. I got the following:
> 
> Ship: Her Imperious Condescension/Dave!Bro Strider  
> Position: Dave!Bro Strider is topping Her Imperious Condescension  
> Dom/Sub: Doesn't matter.  
> Kinks: Heavy / Extreme Bondage, with Pheromones as a minor kink.
> 
> Wasn't able to fit pheromones in what I had, but HOLY SHIT. I loved writing this, it was a LOT of fun.
> 
> So yeah, while this isn't noncon, it could be construed as dubcon - so be careful!

Her hair sprawls across the sheets, thick inky black across the paper-white sheets, and she’s straining against the rope, red to match his favorite color - the contrast is stunning, a metaphor in it’s own, bringing to mind Snow White and the red blood against the white snow. It’s almost beautiful, in a sense, but horrifying in the same, Her Imperial Condescension’s teeth sharp against the dark hollow of her mouth.

Her lips press thin, magenta against dark black skin, hard to his touch. His own skin is softer, and she hisses when he trails a finger across the slope of her breasts, down her stomach and towards her bulge, whipping a trail of pink across her inner thighs.

“Strider,” she growls, and it’s the sound of horror itself, it’s darkness twisted into a false version of a voice, Alternian accent thicker than it probably should be after eighty, ninety, a hundred years on this planet. Even she can hear it, because it’s alien, different on this damn planet. _Useless_ planet.

“Condesce.” He’s smirking, and she recognizes it as black as they come. The shades suit him, hiding his crimson eyes - she’d recognize them anywhere. They’ve barely brushed paths, barely come into contact, but she knows him like the back of her hand. He knows her less, but by the way he tied the rope around her chest, her shoulders, tying her arms back… she’s strong, she could easily break free, and he _knows_ that, it’s obvious in the tension in his shoulders. “Can’t wait to show Rose what I got. Went and caught myself a fish bitch.”

She growls, thrashing against the bed, her hair swirling like ink against paper. It’s almost like it has a life of his own. “You _bastard_.”

“Takes one to know one,” he says, spreading her legs apart. She’s taller than him, bigger, but the size is only a few feet - she’ll get taller in a few hundred, thousand years. She regrets not staying out of the time frame longer - he wouldn’t have bested her.

Not that she didn’t let him.

His time isn’t up. Not yet.

She strains against the rope - it’s harsh, burning into her skin. She can’t imagine this rope on a human’s skin. They’re so damn fragile.

He pauses to unbutton his shirt, tossing it aside in an instant, stretching his arms up. He’s built like a sword fighter. Then he casually undoes the button on his pants, takes the zipper down, and her breath hitches, ever so slightly. Her skin feels colder than usual.

It’s been a while since she’s pailed.

Not since her late husband’s demise.

“Hurry up, fucker,” she rasps out, her legs shaking ever so slightly. Unbecoming of an empress, perhaps, yet she’s letting a human fuck her. Motherfucking humans and their tiny bulges, they can’t begin to get her off right. The rope bites into her arms, and Dave Strider smirks at her, his lips curled lazily.

“I _think_ I’ll take my time here, since you want it so damn bad.”

“Bitch.”

“Didn’t know we were sayin’ our own names here. I was hopin’ I’d get you crying out mine, but y’know what, I’ll take it.” His fingers are back on her knees, pressing her legs apart, and she kicks out, sending him stumbling backwards. The bastard actually laughs, and for a moment she feels a sting within her, the familiar, hungry ache of needing to be forced and filled up by her kismesis.

Not that he deserves the title.

His hands are so damn soft against her skin, moving up and towards her nook and bulge. He’s kneeling on either side of her legs now, and she could easily kick him off again, or do some damage, but then one hand is on her bulge, and she gasps, breathless.

“Thought you humans didn’t do that. Thought you were all against that shit.”

Strider grins at her, and dips his head down, taking her in his mouth. He can’t fit all of her in there, obviously, and she thrusts her hips up as little as she can, pulling the rope taut. She can barely move anything but her legs. But his mouth is like velvet against her bulge, swirling his tongue across the tip, one hand bracing her leg and keeping it pushed down, the other cupped closer to the base of her bulge.

He pulls off with a pop, and she growls, her eyes narrowing.

“I’m a man of many talents,” he says, and goes back down.

It’s slick, and sloppier than she’s used to - he doesn’t actually know how to work with a bulge, that’s obvious, but her legs are straining to stay still, barely arching her hips and back when his tongue runs across the length, his eyes meeting hers - or she thinks he’s meeting her gaze, but honestly, the second he does, her eyes roll back, and he’s taking as much of her as he can. Her bulge twitches against his throat, and he makes a quiet, strangled noise behind her bulge.

She can’t grasp at anything. She can’t grab at the sheets or his hair and yank, and by god does she want to. Her thighs threaten to clench together. It’s a struggle not to moan or make any noise, but she can’t give him the satisfaction.

He’s smirking when he pulls back off of her, his nails digging into her thigh while he strokes, languidly, at her bulge with his other hand. His mouth is fuschia, some dribbling down his chin and neck. “Good thing I lost the shirt.”

“Lose the underwear, for fuck’s sake.”

“So you don’t want me back on your dick?”

It takes half a second for her to hiss out a “Shut the fuck up,” but it’s a half second long enough. He’s pulling down his underwear, not even getting them off completely, and then he’s ramming into her. His hips rock against hers, and she doesn’t even have time to get used to it, because it’s hard and fast and not at all like a nookworm (which is all she’s had for the past few decades), and she’s crying out, her legs wrapping back around his waist to pull him closer, because she needs that deeper, further, _something_. He obliges, meeting her gaze with a smirk. She knows if she used her psionics to read him, he’d probably be way less coherent than he wants her to believe, because he can’t even keep a rhythm with his hips thrusting into hers.

His nails dig in to her hips, and she’ll savor the marks if they leave any.

“I _could_ kill ya,” she growls.

“And _I_ could kill you.”

“Why don’t ya?”

He puncuates his words with a thrust into her, hard, and she lets out a strangled, awful sounding noise. “Because making you a mess seems more fun.”

Everything cuts to white noise, as if everything’s just stuttered to a stop, pausing around her. When everything comes back to focus, her legs are sticky with genetic material, the fuschia staining the sheets, and he’s still thrusting into her, sweat trickling down his brow.

She wants to break free, to force him onto his back and to ride him until she finishes again. Or to get her bulge inside of him. Instead, her voice breaking, she hisses out a quiet, “Are you too afraid of cumming, huh? Too afraid I’ll take advantage of ya?”

He laughs, a stuttery, choked noise. “As if. Maybe I’d want you to take advantage.”

“Then cum, bitch. Get off before I make ya.”

His hips push faster, then stutter to a stop. She likes the feeling of being filled, and even more so, she likes the feeling she gets watching him breathe heavily, mouth open, hands loose on her hips. She could kill him. She could strangle him with this very rope, hang him from the balcony, make everyone think it was an accident.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she laughs. “Is that all you got?”

And he looks at her, and pushes his shades up onto his hair, those scarlet eyes meeting hers, and pulls out of her, climbing up to rest on his elbows right next to her face. “Did I say it was?”


End file.
